Tastes Like Trophies
by happycabbage75
Summary: A night at a fancy hotel... And the concierge is only one of the things our boys have to face.
1. Chapter 1

**Tastes Like Trophies**

Summary: A night at a fancy hotel… And the concierge is only one of the things our boys have to face.

Disclaimer: No money made here. Just writing out of sheer desperation in the face of an entire summer without Sam and Dean.

Chapter One

* * *

"Now that," Dean pointed, "is what I'm talking about."

The enormous mansion, now a very plush hotel, stood in the middle of a wide expanse of lawn. Night was falling, but as Dean drove through the gates and down the long driveway, they could see the wings of the house spreading out to either side. Surrounding the hotel, the grounds seemed to go on forever, stretching away into the darkness, guarded on all sides by an eight foot tall stone wall.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Sam asked, worriedly eyeing the building. "We can find a cheap hotel around here somewhere."

"Oh, I'm sure," Dean nodded. After yet another near disaster that had ended up with them covered in mud, blood and needing stitches, they were going to spend the next few days in the lap of luxury if he had to max out every fake credit card he had to do it.

"It's the little mints on the pillows," Dean added. "They're calling to me."

Sam frowned, looking at him again. "You know how much this place costs, right?"

"I don't care if the Queen of England has to have a co-signer to stay here," Dean said tiredly. It was almost to the point that he had forgotten what it felt like to be well rested. "And quit looking at me like I'm having a breakdown. I just want a night that doesn't end in one of us nearly getting killed, ok?"

"Ok," Sam said. Then after several seconds, he finally sighed. "I gotta admit. It'll be nice to stay someplace where we don't have to worry about bed bugs."

Dean snorted. "You remember that hotel where we had the cockroach contest?" They had been children at the time and it had been a very simple game. Whoever killed the most cockroaches in two weeks was the winner. At the end of the two weeks, their dad had been happy because the game had kept his sons out of his hair and the cockroach population had diminished considerably. Dean had been happy because he'd had bragging rights for a month.

Sam, however, cringed at the memory. "How could I forget waking up in the middle of the night to see you standing over me with a shoe saying, 'Don't move! It's on your knee and it's mine!'"

"A true hunter never sleeps," Dean dead-panned, then ruined it when he couldn't stop a laugh from escaping. He could still see the look on his brother's face. It had been a cross between fear of having a cockroach on him and fear of Dean clobbering him. Sam had never been fond of cockroaches and Dean couldn't really blame him. You know it's a bad morning when you wake up with a cockroach the size of your fist sitting on your chest staring at you.

"Dean, I had a bruise on my leg for weeks!"

"Saved your life," Dean said, working to hide his grin. "That cockroach was rabid. I could see it in its eyes."

"_Something_ was rabid," Sam muttered.

Dean pulled the car up in front of the hotel and stepped out. Almost immediately a man in uniform came forward holding out his hand for the keys. The smile faded from Dean's face as he saw the man eyeing his car. Pure lust. Dean knew that look and _no one_ got to look at his car that way, but him. It was like looking at another man's girl with him standing there.

"Dude," Dean snapped his fingers and the man's eyes finally left the car long enough to focus on him. "Yeah. Eyes on the guy who is either going to give you a tip or put his foot where the sun don't shine depending on how you treat his car."

The man frowned, still holding out his hand for the keys.

"And I'm not talking about Seattle," Dean added.

"I'll be very careful with it, sir," the valet assured him.

"Fine," Dean said, "just so we understand each other. Sam, you got the bags?"

Dean turned to see that another valet had appeared and was already heading up the steps with their meager baggage. He gave the first valet one more stern glance as the man got into the car and put it in gear, then Dean followed his brother up the steps.

The foyer was enormous with a high vaulted ceiling. Staircases led away on either side, and corridors led off in various directions, though the lobby was fairly quiet due to the late hour. Working not to stare at their opulent surroundings, they moved across the marble floor toward the desk.

Neither he nor Sam was looking particularly affluent and the concierge eyed them suspiciously. The man, mid 30s, carefully coiffed and wearing a hotel uniform, pursed his lips as they approached as if preparing to have the ruffians removed from his pristine lobby. In answer, Dean put on his best, 'what makes you think you're good enough to talk to me' expression. _That_ the concierge recognized and immediately straightened, fingering his tie.

"Reservations for Shatner," Dean said confidently.

Sam made a half-choking, half-coughing sound beside him, but Dean only continued to stare unflinchingly at the concierge while he produced a credit card. "And I requested the first floor. I'm not good with heights." He also preferred it for a quick getaway if it became necessary, but the desk clerk didn't need to know that.

The concierge still wasn't entirely pleased with their looks, but he dutifully started his standard speech describing the hotel's many amenities. Finally, when Dean was ready to smack him to get him to shut up and let them get to bed, the man handed over a set of room keys and looked to the valet who was still standing to one side with their bags. "Marcus, will you see the gentlemen to the Kalahari Room?"

Marcus nodded and began walking, but abruptly stopped when they heard a scream come from outside. Sam and Dean, however, immediately sprinted for the doors and ran outside. The only light was coming from the ground lights illuminating the face of the hotel and a security light around the side where the cars were parked. The lawn beyond was almost completely black.

"Where did it come from?" Sam asked, as they both looked everywhere, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Another strangled cry, hastily cut off, came from the direction of the parking lot. Carefully moving along the building, they hurried toward the side of the hotel, their eyes watchful. Just as they rounded the corner of the building, Sam cried out and toppled forward, landing in a jumbled pile.

Dean turned to help Sam to his feet, but stopped as both of their eyes were immediately drawn to what Sam had tripped over.

The body of a uniformed valet.

Dean looked down at the man's bloody remains. "Well, that had to hurt."

Sam raised troubled eyes to meet his. "Dean… Where's his head?"

* * *

_Just a little teaser… More tomorrow._


	2. Chapter 2

**Tastes Like Trophies**

Summary: A night at a fancy hotel… And the concierge is only one of the things our boys have to face.

_Thanks so much for the reviews… You're lovely, generous people._

Chapter Two

* * *

"Dean… Where's his head?"

Dean scooped up his car keys from the grass where the valet had dropped them, but ignored Sam's question. He scanned the dark lawn surrounding them, more concerned that whatever had killed the man might still be in the area. He wasn't armed and doubted his brother was either. The night was quiet, however, the gentle chirping of crickets the only sound.

Dean heard running steps coming around the corner and hurried to block whoever it was. Otherwise they would do the same thing Sam had done and trip over the body.

As he stepped away from the building, the concierge slammed into him, nearly knocking him over. Dean managed to keep them both upright, just. A pool of blood and other unpleasant byproducts of a messy death were a good motivator not to fall.

"You don't want to go over there," Dean said with certainty.

"You really don't," Sam added, appearing beside him to form a better screen.

"Does he need an ambulance?" the man asked, side-stepping to see around them. Dean could tell the exact instant when the concierge realized the man wouldn't be needing any medical help. That instant was directly followed by the clerk heaving his guts onto the lawn.

"What's going on, Simmons?"

They turned to see a tall, older gentleman approaching. He was in a dark, precisely cut suit, and looked to be a very no-nonsense sort. He had that whole British butler vibe going, Dean thought.

"Who are you?" Dean asked pointedly.

"My name is Smedley. I am the _manager_ of Huntington House," the man frowned.

"Well, _good_ for you," Dean said, his innocent expression barely hiding the sarcasm. "You need to call the police. You've got a body on the lawn."

Smedley's dour expression became fractionally more dour, but the manager ignored him, scanning the darkened lawn just as Dean had done earlier.

"His head's gone!"

They all spared the concierge a glance where he was still staring bug-eyed at the body.

"Is he correct?" Smedley demanded.

"Yeah," Dean answered. "Now are you gonna call the cops or am I?"

"Inside," the manager ordered suddenly.

"What?" the concierge said, his voice nearly hysterical.

Smedley grabbed his employee by the sleeve and began dragging him toward the front doors almost, but not quite, at a run. "Inside now," he barked.

Sam shot Dean a confused look, but they both quickly followed.

"Sam, call 911," Dean said. "I somehow get the feeling this guy isn't going to." His brother nodded and pulled out his cell phone, quickly giving the operator the bare essentials in only a few seconds before hanging up.

It always amazed Dean just how short a time it really took to tell what was going on. People always said, 'it's a long story.' In reality, stories really weren't that long.

911, your emergency? -- Hi, my name's Sam. I found a body on the lawn. He doesn't have a head.

Hey, what happened to your mom? -- Demon killed her when I was little. I miss her sometimes.

Easy as that. Just about anything could be summed up in a sentence or two. It's a long story really just meant, I don't want to tell you or you really don't need to know.

"You sure calling the cops was a good idea?" Sam asked. "This might be our kind of thing. They'll just get in the way."

Dean shook his head still carefully watching the darkened lawn for any signs of movement as they walked. "Whether this is our kind of thing or not, the whole hotel heard that scream. We can't hide this. The manager guy might try and I don't want it biting us in the ass later that we didn't call. There's no way the desk guy will be able to keep quiet. He'll tell everyone he can."

Dean shrugged, dismissing the hysterical man. There just wasn't much you could do with people who were crap in a crisis. You just did the best you could to work around them… and/or hit them over the head and kicked them out of the way so they didn't get you killed.

"So what do you think happened to that guy?" he asked.

"I don't know, but the skin was ragged," Sam observed. "Something just ripped his head off."

"Fast too," Dean frowned. "There wasn't much time between the scream and when we got there."

They hurried up the front steps into the hotel. "The laptop's in one of the bags," Sam said. "I'll see what I can find when we get to our room."

Walking back into the lobby, they saw the manager standing in front of the concierge glowering at him. "Focus, Simmons!" they heard him say. "I need to know who the last person to check in was!"

Simmons looked around confusedly until his eyes fell on Sam and Dean. "Those two," he said pointing. "They'd just checked in when we heard the scream."

Dean distantly heard the sound of sirens. The manager must have heard them too because he turned toward them, nervously eyeing the front door as if the police would barge through it any second.

"Are you hunters?" he demanded.

Dean felt his heart skip a beat and ordered himself to breath normally. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"Are you hunters?" the man repeated more loudly. "It's a very simple question. Deer, antelope, buffalo… Are you sportsman?"

"No," Dean said with a frown, then added carefully, "No, _sport_ hunting."

The man grit his teeth and swung around scanning the nervously chatting people now filling the lobby.

"There has to be one," they heard him muttering. "No other reason."

"What difference does it make if we're hunters?" Sam questioned.

The manager was prevented from answering, however, by the appearance of a uniformed officer appearing through the front doors.

* * *

"And you thought it would be too uptight," Dean laughed tiredly, throwing his duffel bag onto the bed. "They've got dead guys just like every other place we stay."

The cops had asked the same questions every which way from Sunday. Yes, they'd found the body. Yes, it was without a head at the time. No, they hadn't touched it other than tripping over it. No, they hadn't seen anyone running away. No, they hadn't seen anyone suspicious hanging around the hotel.

They both looked around the room and Dean couldn't help a pleased grin from stealing across his face. So there was a body on the lawn. It wasn't his problem. Not right now anyway. His only job was to enjoy a good night's sleep while the cops did their thing. And their room was nice and cushy. It even smelled fresh.

"Quit grinning. It's creepy," Sam said. "So the room's nice. I'm sure they paid some specialist to pick out everything in here to be the perfect color. They certainly passed the price on to the consumer." He patted a wall. "It's a nice beige-y, browny, certified to be soothing color…"

"Taupe."

"I'm sorry?" Sam said, turning to look at him.

"I'd say it's more of a taupe," Dean said again. "And quit knocking the place just because it costs a fortune."

Sam moved closer and Dean fought the urge to back up. "Where would Mr. Who-Cares-It's-Just-Intestines learn the difference between beige and taupe?"

"Mom," Dean shrugged and saw the amused grin fade from his brother's face. Dean cleared his suddenly constricted throat and dropped his eyes, unable to meet Sam's. "We were in the living room and she had all these little pieces of fabric. I think she was trying to pick out curtains or something. I was sitting on the floor by her playing with… I had this f…" Dean took a shaky breath, "this fire engine I liked to play with. She asked which color I liked and I told her I liked the brown one. Mom just laughed. She sat down on the floor by me and spread out all these fabric pieces. She put her arm around me and pointed to each one. Beige, ivory, off-white, cream, eggshell, taupe, tan…"

He could see her in his mind's eye patiently pointing to each one and saying the names along with him. He could hear her pretty laugh as he worked to form the strange sounds. Sometimes he couldn't remember what she looked like, but if he closed his eyes, he could always hear that laugh.

Dean cleared his throat again. "She… she said when I was a big boy, I'd go to school and learn all the colors."

"You never told me that story," Sam said softly.

"Yeah, well, it was wishful thinking," Dean shrugged and moved away, though he could still feel Sam's eyes on him. "I spent all those years in school and I still can't tell the difference between off-white and eggshell." He shook his head. "I don't even know why I told you that stupid story."

Except he did. They both did.

"Ok," Dean said scrubbing a hand through his hair, "Now that we've verified that I _am_ having a bona fide breakdown, I think I'll go to bed. Dead body or no dead body."

"Thanks for telling me," Sam said, and the look on his face made Dean back up another step until he bumped into the windowsill.

"Dude, if you hug me, you'll be paying for your own room."

Sam held up both hands and laughed. "Calm down. You're safe for the moment."

Dean heard a sound behind him and spun to look out the window. He could barely see anything other than the distant glow of the police lights on the other side of the hotel. The window itself was partially blocked by the bushes and Dean wondered why the hotel hadn't cut them back. He heard the sound again and quickly jumped back from the window.

"Hey, Sam? I think the shrubs just growled at me."

* * *

_More tomorrow... Stay tuned..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Tastes Like Trophies**

_Thanks for the reviews! I was genuinely surprised and am very grateful. _

_I'm also very sorry for the difficulties getting the new chapter to show up. Site problems I'm supposing..._

Chapter Three

* * *

"Can I just say that rich people have way too much money?"

Sam glanced up from his laptop to see Dean looking out the window. It was late afternoon, but Dean was just getting up, still padding around the room in his bare feet.

Sam had woken up earlier, but they'd been up all night with the police and he'd decided to let his brother sleep as long as he could. Dean was tired and if he said he needed a break then he was really several weeks, maybe months, past needing a break. So if Dean slept for two or three days solid, then it was fine by Sam.

Frankly, he was both surprised and puzzled by Dean's choice of hotel. Sam had been around enough pretentious rich kids in college to last him a lifetime. He had nothing against fresh sheets, but didn't really feel the draw.

Dean, however, had latched onto the idea of a ritzy hotel like a leech. He was a no frills kind of guy and he certainly didn't appreciate snobbery, which made the choice all the more surprising to Sam. His brother never spoke about what he wanted. It might be so deeply buried he didn't know it himself. Dean was exhausted. Maybe he thought only rich people got to rest. The only down time any of them had ever had was when one of them was injured.

In any case, while Dean was sleeping, Sam had spent several hours looking into the history of the hotel and the area. His brother may have fallen into a deep sleep after hearing something in the bushes growling at him, but as Sam had promised, he'd been doing some research. He hadn't found anything odd though. It was a respectable business in a respectable area. Not even a whiff of the supernatural. Nothing odd anywhere about the dead man or his family either.

"_Way_ too much money," Dean said again for emphasis.

"I think that's the definition of rich people," Sam said. "They have money."

"No," Dean replied, motioning him over. "I'm talking crazy, stupid money."

Sam walked to the window and looked out. "It's topiary," he said and moved to sit back down.

"Topi-whaty?" Dean frowned. "They're not taupe. They're green."

"Shrubs cut into shapes," Sam said patiently.

"Dude, who has time to make animals out of bushes!"

"Topiary," Sam said again.

"And only rich people have time to come up with a name for shrub statues," Dean shook his head in amazed disbelief.

"They don't have time to trim the shrubs into animal shapes. That's what rich people have gardeners for."

"Like I said… way too much money," Dean replied. "Look at this. Lion, monkey, bear… There's an elephant over there. They're everywhere. It's like a freaking zoo."

"Did you even look at the site for this place before you booked it?" Sam asked, then sighed when Dean just shrugged. Research wasn't high on Dean's list of fun things to do. He'd probably taken one look at the pictures and impulsively decided it fit the bill. "The guy who built the house was a hunter type in the 1800s. He went to Africa and randomly shot things for a living."

"Wonderful," Dean said, still staring out at the lawn. "Crazy, rich and thinks he's Hemingway."

Sam blinked at the reference, but let it pass. Dean liked to play at being illiterate, but he'd paid attention in school. Their dad would have killed him otherwise.

Dean sighed. "So you looked around, I assume. Newspapers and such… You find anything?"

"Nothing," Sam said in some frustration, glaring at the laptop.

Dean finally turned away from the window. "So no leads."

Sam just shook his head, then watched as a faint smile began to spread across his brother's features.

"No leads, nowhere to go, nothing to do…" Dean said nonchalantly. "Rich people have to have a pool table somewhere. I say we go find it and then you can lose gracefully."

Sam had to laugh. "_One_ of us has to be a good loser."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "You. So you feel like eating a little humble pie?" he smiled, all his teeth showing like the predator he was.

Sam grinned. "You're on."

* * *

They walked into the Game Room the concierge had directed them to and stopped dead just inside the door.

"That's just… disturbing," Dean stated.

The Game Room had a pool table and several other playing tables, but the décor was something out of a taxidermist's nightmare. Every imaginable surface was covered in stuffed animals. There were animal heads on the walls, animals on tables, rugs on the floor... Deer, antelope, boar, buffalo, things Sam didn't know what they were, but they had antlers or horns or tusks. There were birds mounted with their wings spread as if in flight. African animals, Asian animals, American animals. If it could be shot, it had been stuffed and put in the room.

"Lions, tigers and bears," Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes. "If you're expecting me to say 'oh my' you can forget it. I hate that movie. Those flying monkey things scared the crap out of me when I was little."

He walked up to a bear that had been mounted standing on its back feet, snarling, its claws extended as if ready to attack. Dean stood in front of it, looking up where it rose at least nine feet high and it looked so lifelike Sam had the sudden urge to pull Dean away.

"I think it's watching me," he said and laughed almost sheepishly, stepping back.

He turned and looked around the room again. There were heads of panthers, cougars, tigers, wolves, predators of every sort mixed in with more peaceful animals. Zebra, bison, wildebeest, all looking down at them.

Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Normally, I don't mind an audience while I play pool, but this is seriously weird. And the smell…"

Sam had to agree. It smelled of… stale death… That smell you got when you opened an old coffin. There were so many stuffed animals. Sam could almost feel the smell seeping into his skin, into his clothes.

"I see you found Mr. Huntington's little collection." Both brothers jumped as the hotel manager walked into the room. "It took him years to create such an assortment," he added.

"I'm not sure _create_ is the word I'd pick," Dean said, a vague expression of distaste on his face as he looked up at an ibex.

Sam coughed politely, drawing the manager's attention. "Have the police found anything?"

"No," Mr. Smedley said curtly, then said nothing else, just stared at them.

"You must be busy," Sam said. "We don't want to keep you."

"Actually, the owner has cancelled all incoming reservations until things are more settled and everyone else quickly checked out as soon as they heard about the… unpleasantness."

"You mean the dead guy in the parking lot," Dean smiled wickedly.

"Very aptly put… sir," Smedley frowned.

"That's Mr. Shatner to you," Sam heard Dean mutter. Either Smedley didn't hear it or chose to ignore it. Sam suspected the latter.

"We're the only ones left?" he asked and Smedley nodded. "You want us to get our stuff? We can be out of here in only…"

"No," the man said, and Sam caught the barest whiff of panic before the manager's expression smoothed back into complacency. "Actually, Cook was already mid-way through preparations for dinner when the mass exodus started. I came to ask if you had already had dinner."

Sam looked out one of the windows and saw that the sun was setting. Dean really had slept almost the whole day away. "No, we haven't."

"Wonderful," the man smiled subserviently. "Then may I invite you gentlemen to enjoy a meal on the rear verandah? Otherwise the food will go to waste."

Sam started to shake his head, but Dean was already patting his stomach. "Lead the way. I'm so hungry I could eat a horse." He looked up at the walls, eyeing the various creatures warily. "I don't thing there's one of those in here."

They followed Smedley through several rooms and then down a long corridor toward a set of exterior doors.

The manager held one open. "After you," he motioned.

They both stepped out into what looked like a large walled garden, filled with more of Dean's topiary, the closest one a tiger or some other large cat. But there was no table set up for an elegant meal.

"I thought you said there was going to be dinner," Dean said irritably.

"And I thought you said you weren't hunters," Smedley replied, swinging the door closed and locking it, still watching them through the glass panes.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sam yelled, yanking on the doorknob to no avail.

Sam and Dean both turned, hearing a distinct growl behind them.

"I think there's something in the bushes," Sam whispered, seeing the leaves start to twitch.

They watched in horror, hearing the plant's roots crack and break as the tiger topiary raised its paws from the ground freeing itself to stalk toward them. It raised its head and Sam had the uncomfortable feeling the 'tiger' was scenting the air. It opened its jaws, limbs cracking at the movement, and snarled, the sound unbelievably loud.

"You think it can hurt us?" Dean asked. "I mean it's only a shrub."

"Uhhh…. You remember the guy without the head?" Sam inquired.

"Point taken."

The tiger stalked closer, moving with a lithe stride no group of leaves could produce.

"What do we do?" Sam hissed.

Dean looked at him. "Run."

* * *

_I know, I know… I had a tiger in the last story. Bear with me… I'm working up to something. Promise._


	4. Chapter 4

**Tastes Like Trophies**

_Thanks so much for the kind reviews and I am sorry as can be if I missed replying to anyone, but the site says the darn reviews don't exist…_

_And for those of you wondering what in the heck the title means, hopefully this will give you some idea._

Chapter Four

* * *

"Where are we supposed to go?" Sam said. "This is a walled garden. He's locked us in."

"I'm thinking!" Dean shot back.

Once again there were no lights on the lawn, and here there weren't even ground lights to illuminate the exterior of the house. Using the dim light coming through the panes of glass in the door and the windows above, they both looked around the garden, trying to see through the darkness for another way out.

Smedley had chosen his trap well. There were no first floor windows looking into the garden and the manager himself was blocking the door.

"Whatever you're going to do, you'd better do it fast," Sam urged. The tiger was within only a few feet of them, backing them into the corner created by the house and the garden wall.

"Over the wall, Sam," Dean said, simultaneously hoisting a concrete vase sitting near them and heaving it at the animal. The vase caught the possessed shrub in the flank and knocked it sideways. The tiger roared angrily, but neither of them waited to see any more. Dean gave Sam a leg up, then followed, both scrambling up the eight foot wall using the vines covering it to climb.

Sam reached the top of the wall and laid himself out across the top, turning to help his brother up. A hissing near his hand stopped him. He snatched his hand back as he realized the vine was actually slithering toward him across the top of the wall. _Great_. It wasn't just the tiger. Sam quickly grabbed another piece of vine, first making certain it too wasn't hissing, and ripped it loose. Using the branch he slid it beneath the 'snake' and flung it over Dean's head into the walled garden.

Sam heard a stifled cry and looked down to see Dean was caught, his calf in the tiger's leafy mouth. The tiger shook its head back and forth like a dog worrying a bone trying to wrest Dean from the wall. Dean awkwardly used his other foot and kicked the tiger in the face. The animal snarled, but released him. Sam reached down, grabbed Dean by the arm and bodily dragged him up and over the top.

They both landed heavily on the other side. Dean grunted and leaned against the wall, taking his weight off of his leg. "I know it's just a shrub," he said, his face tight with pain, "but it sure felt like teeth."

"You all right?" His brother's jeans below the knee were stained with blood, but Sam couldn't tell how much damage had actually been done.

"Are you kidding?" Dean shouted angrily. "I paid a fortune for this place and they just tried to kill us! I haven't even done anything to piss them off yet!"

"A preemptive strike?" Sam suggested.

"Dude, shut up."

They both froze at a snuffling sound close by. Carefully they turned to look out over the lawn. "Are we taking bets on whether anything else out here has something against us?" Dean asked lowly.

The snuffling grew louder and something low and leafy charged them, racing out of the darkness.

"Boar," Sam shouted, already bracing to run.

"There," Dean pointed toward a bench sitting back against the wall only a few feet from them. They ran toward it and the boar veered, still aiming directly at them. Grabbing the bench together, they turned it over. The edge of the bench caught the boar across the back, pinning the shrub in place. The boar squealed and grunted angrily, trying to free itself, but was trapped.

"We've got to get inside," Dean said, breathing heavily and favoring his injured leg.

"You gonna make it?"

"No choice, really," his brother answered.

It made Sam's heart ache to know that was how Dean saw almost everything in his life. No choice. It had to be done so he would do it. He would fight and work and struggle, no matter the cost to himself. And while Sam bridled beneath the constraints, Dean doggedly worked to his own hurt, never complaining. It was so much a part of his character, he wouldn't know how to change it if he wanted to.

They edged along the wall, trying to find the closest door. Rounding the corner of the building they frightened a small group of deer-like topiary that had apparently been grazing. They ran in a herd away from the house. Sam gasped when another animal, a wolf or hyena or coyote, waded into the herd and brought one of the smaller ones down.

"There are a bear and a lion around here too," Dean whispered. "Who knows what else."

Finally they came to a door, although it too was locked. For whatever reason, Smedley had fully intended for them to be dinner tonight. Dean quickly pulled his sleeve down over his hand and broke out a pane of glass. He reached around to unlock it and they hurried inside.

Smedley was waiting for them with a gun. "I really do need you to go back outside."

"Are you nuts?" Dean shouted, ignoring the gun and sinking into the closest chair, though his eyes never left the hotel manager.

"We're not going back out there!" Sam added. Certainly not when Dean was hurt and the sharks could scent the blood in the water.

"You may not believe me," Smedley said, his voice calm and level, "but I am trying to save lives."

"You're saving lives by feeding us to the wolves?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Exactly so."

"You care to explain that?" he bit out.

"I am the manager here and thus am privileged with certain responsibilities."

"Killing the guests?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

He saw Dean lean forward to inspect his leg. His brother grimaced slightly and then sat back, purposely smearing the blood on his hands all over the expensively upholstered chair he was sitting in.

"My job is to protect this hotel, its employees and its patrons," Smedley said, his tone still infuriatingly calm, though he angrily eyed Dean and the stain he was making all over the chair. "I searched your bags while you were being interviewed by the police. I had to know what you are. You see, Mr. Huntington killed a great many animals. Not all of them took it kindly."

"You _knew_ the bushes would turn into an episode of 'When Animals Attack,'" Dean stated.

"This has happened before," Smedley said, "and I know how to take care of it."

Sam frowned. "I didn't find anything in my research. There haven't been any other deaths."

"As I said, I take care of it."

"You cover up murders," Dean said flatly.

"Rather I pick up _after_ murderers," he narrowed his eyes, "like you two."

"You wanna try that again?" Dean said, getting to his feet, fury overriding the damage to his leg. The look on his face was incredulous, but underneath it Sam could see just the barest hint of recognition. As if deep down, his brother feared it might be true. That glimpse alone was enough to make Sam want to wring the manager's neck for making Dean even think such a thing.

"This has only happened twice before. Each time a hunter came to this place... Not a casual hunter who goes out and shoots a deer and enjoys a bit of venison pie... No. A professional. A hunter. A _killer_. And both times the animals woke."

"They killed people," Sam said, already knowing the answer.

"Yes."

"Let me guess… headless," Dean sighed.

"Huntington kept his trophies. The heads are hanging on the Game Room walls. The animals are returning the favor."

"How do we stop it?" Sam asked.

"The same way a killer is always stopped," Smedley said, his voice deadly calm. "A bigger predator comes along. Huntington was killed by a lion. The other two hunters who came here… It ended when the animals had their trophy."

"Why don't you just cut down all the shrubs?" Dean demanded. "Or at least quit trimming animals out of them."

"You don't understand," the manager said. "We don't have a gardener. The shrubs _grow_ that way. It's my job to keep them from killing anyone else. And since you two caused this disaster, you are the ones who have to end it. The sacrificial lambs, as it were."

Smedley raised the gun and, as if he knew the only thing that would force Dean to move, pointed the weapon directly at Sam's chest. "Now, I'm really going to have to ask you gentlemen to step back outside."

* * *

_A little heavy on the exposition side… Forgive me… Had to be done…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Tastes Like Trophies**

_Allllrighty... Let's try this again!_

_And goodness, you are a supportive group of people! Makes me a happy typer…Even if I can't get a darn thing posted!_

Chapter Five

* * *

Dean swore as the door clicked closed behind him. "I am going to rip that guy's head off myself when I get my hands on him."

They both stood silently for several seconds listening. They could hear the insects chirping, but nothing else.

"We've got to get to the car," Dean stated the obvious, vowing for the hundredth time never ever to leave the car again unarmed. Somehow he always really needed to shoot something when he found himself unarmed.

Sam hurried off in the direction of the parking lot and Dean followed as quickly as his injured leg would allow. He was beginning to have real issues with tigers. They were going to give him a permanent limp if he wasn't careful.

He heard a faint noise behind him, almost like… chuckling. Then the same sound repeated to his left, them again to his right, the same snuffled chuckling.

_Crap_.

"Faster, Sam. We've got hyenas on our tail!" Dean shouted.

Sam put on an answering burst of speed and ran ahead of him into the parking lot, illuminated by the security light.

"Keys!" Dean yelled, throwing them to his brother who turned and caught them one handed, still at a run.

By the time Dean was within a few feet of the car, Sam had the trunk open and threw his sawed-off shotgun, Marigold, into his waiting hands. As always, Marigold was a sudden reassuring and comforting weight. Dean spun, leaning back into the car and fired just as the nearest hyena launched itself toward him. And it was definitely him they were after. He was wounded and bleeding, the weaker of their two prey.

His brother was too tall anyway, Dean mentally muttered. They probably thought he was a tree.

"Down!" Sam fired to Dean's far side where a hyena had been sneaking up. As soon as they were shot, the hyenas fell to the ground only so much cut shrubbery. As soon as they were down, however, more appeared to take their place.

"How many of these freaking things did the bastard have stuffed?" Dean shouted.

Unexpectedly, the wheezing, chuckling sound ceased.

"Ok, not good," Sam said.

"What? The hyenas backed off!" Dean snapped.

"So what out there is scary enough to make a pack of hyenas stand down? Cause it's not us," Sam answered.

From the far side of the parking lot, an enormous lion stepped into the pool of light created by the security lamp. The green, leafy animal was huge, its mane a flowing halo around its head.

"Just couldn't be a rabid meerkat," Dean sighed.

The lion began sauntering toward them, first one way and then the other, slowly and silently making its way forward. "Sam, I think it's your turn to take one for the team. You keep it busy while I go set that room with all the heads on fire."

"Dean…" Sam said, his tone far from amused.

A booming concussion filled the air and the entire center of the lion was gone in a sprinkling of green leafy confetti. A man stepped into the parking lot in full turn of the century safari get-up, complete from pith helmet to boots. He was carrying an enormous shotgun, still leveled in the direction of the lion.

"Get behind me, chaps! He's a maneater."

"Why do I get the feeling Jungle Jim isn't making a Hall & Oates joke?" Dean said, completely exasperated.

They both looked back to the lion and watched as the hole the shotgun blast had caused began to shrink and then completely fill in with fresh leaves. Dean brought Marigold to bear and fired directly into the lion's face. The leaves flew as the rock salt struck home, but unlike the hyenas, the lion did not revert to lawn clippings. The leaves filled in and reformed and the lion roared furiously.

"Wonderful," Sam's shoulders slumped. "It's immune to rock salt."

"Good try, lad," the hunter called to Dean, "but it will take more than that to bring the old boy down. I've been trying to kill him for years."

"Hey, safari dude," Dean yelled.

"I beg your pardon!" the man said. "My name is Huntington."

"Whatever. Can you get us back to the room with all the heads?" The house was huge and Dean wasn't sure he could find it again.

"Ah, my collection," the man said proudly. "Want a better look at it, do you, lad?" He motioned grandly, "This way then."

Sam and Dean looked back to see that the lion was now sitting casually, though still watching them. Sam quickly gathered as much salt and as many rock salt rounds as he could fit into a bag, adding a tin of lighter fluid for good measure and together he and Dean moved toward Huntington never turning their back to the lion.

"Cheer up," Huntington chuckled. "Lions are a lazy lot. Even a maneater. He's decided to find a better time to sneak up on you and eat you."

"That is not exactly comforting," Dean asserted.

"Live to hunt another day," the man nodded, already moving quickly toward the house. "That's what I always say."

"Except you're dead," Dean muttered.

"What was that?" Huntington raised an eyebrow.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam hissed. "He doesn't know."

"I said, I want to see the heads," Dean said louder, then half-coughed, slightly embarrassed. "Your collection, I mean. They're… fascinating."

Huntington smiled and led them to yet another door. He, of course, passed right through it, while Dean was forced yet again to break it open, the old mechanism giving way easily as he put his shoulder to it.

Walking three abreast down a long corridor, Huntington turned to them. "Are you hunters?"

"Sort of," Dean answered. He never had liked talking to ghosts. You never knew what they were going to take the wrong way and then decide to kill you. And he wasn't really feeling up to a run at the moment.

"Ever been to Africa?" the man pressed.

Dean grunted, "No."

"Best hunting there is, on safari," Huntington replied. "So many of the beasts. Excellent time to be had. Nothing better than the absolute rush of bringing your animal down. Tracking it, getting it in your sights."

Dean's gut twisted in distaste. Killing just for the sake of killing. Not to protect, not even for food. Just to kill. Just to have another trophy to hang on his wall to prove what a man he was. To prove that he was a better killer than his friends.

Dean had killed. He'd hunted and killed and killed, but never just for the sake of killing. He hunted to protect those who didn't know enough to protect themselves. He hunted to protect his father and Sam. The thought of a keepsake to remind him of something he'd killed… It made his stomach turn.

And yet the hotel manager's words rang in his ears. _I pick up after murderers… like you two._ It was a killer who woke the animals. A murderer. But it wasn't Sam. Sam wanted a home. He wanted to be normal, to be a lawyer. Dean knew it was him. He was the killer. He was the reason the valet had died. Death was his trade and the animals had known it.

"What's the matter, lad?" Huntington asked. "You look like you've just swallowed a stink larva."

"Nothing," Dean bit out. "Much farther?"

"No, no."

They turned a corner and Dean finally recognized where they were. They turned into the room and he felt every hair on his head stand to attention. The animals' spirits were using the plants to get around, but this room was just creepy and the smell… like ancient rot, was nauseating.

Huntington wandered around the room, staring adoringly up at his trophies, reliving past triumphs.

Quietly, Sam started pulling the stuffed animals off the wall and piling them in the center of the room. Huntington continued wandering obliviously, as ghosts were prone to do, occasionally petting a stuffed head as if it were a pet.

Sam hurried as fast as he could while Dean kept his gun trained on Huntington in case of trouble. Truth be told, Dean's leg felt like it was on fire and he doubted he could help his brother with the task if he wanted to.

"What do you think you're doing?" Smedley roared, barreling into the room.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" Huntington roared, raising his shotgun and aiming it at Sam.

Dean immediately fired and Huntington evaporated in a spray of rock salt. Dean swung and leveled Marigold at Smedley.

"Don't move." Dean spared a glance at his brother. "Keep going, Sam. Forget the pile. Just knock 'em down. We'll spread some salt and burn the whole room. I don't think Huntington is going to stay gone long."

"What are you doing?" Smedley shouted again.

"We're taking care of your little problem," Dean snapped, keeping his gun on Smedley. "You were right. We're hunters. Just a bit more specialized than your Mr. Huntington. Now I'd suggest you answer a few questions before I think better of it and throw you outside on your ass and leave you to the lion."

"What do you mean you're taking care of it?" Smedley asked, astounded.

Dean pulled the hammer back on his gun, the noise loud in the room. Sam stopped what he was doing and looked at him. They both knew it wasn't necessary to cock the weapon. Dean wasn't going to shoot the man and it was only rock salt after all. Still, the sound always made a statement. Sam just didn't like him scaring people. The guy had nearly gotten them killed, though, and Dean had no qualms about seeing the manager squirm.

"Not another word," Dean said coldly, "Except some answers. Sam, keep pulling them down."

Sam gave him a hard look, but kept knocking the stuffed heads down, standing on top of various bits of furniture to get to the highest ones, pitching them to the floor.

"Now," Dean said, raising Marigold higher, backing Smedley to the wall. "Where is Huntington buried?"

"What?"

"Dude… don't make me ask again," and something in his face seemed to convince the hotel manager.

"He…," he cleared his throat nervously, "His mausoleum is in the walled garden."

"The one you locked us into earlier?"

Smedley nodded.

"There are no lions in this room. I've looked. Is it kept somewhere else?"

"L-lion? What do you…"

Dean's glare stopped him. "I'd suggest you not cross a man you've tried to murder. Where's the lion? Is it a rug?"

"It was the lion that killed him. One of Mr. Huntington's friends shot it and… and sent the claws. He was buried with them."

"You have got to be joking!" Dean said wide-eyed. "It's no wonder they're still walking around trying to kill each other. You _idiots_ buried them together."

"You… You can stop this?" Smedley asked, as if what Dean had said had finally gotten through.

"You about done, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam said, slightly winded as he jumped down from atop a tall sideboard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a flash of movement.

"DEAN!"

Smedley gasped, seeing whatever was happening. Dean turned just in time to see the huge bear he'd been looking at earlier free itself from its pedestal and fall forward onto his brother. Sam crashed to the ground, the air knocked out of him as his head cracked on the floor. The bear growled, batting at him, almost like a cat toying with a mouse, except the claws were leaving gouges on Sam's arms as he struggled to protect himself from the bear's massive paws.

Dean fired into the body of the stuffed bear, emptying Marigold until the animal slumped, a dead weight with Sam trapped underneath.

"Get this thing off me!" Sam grunted, trying to shift the heavy carcass.

Dean grabbed the bear, now just a stuffed animal that had been blown to smithereens, and dragged it to the side far enough that Sam could crawl out from underneath.

"You ok?" Dean asked, studying his brother for signs of serious injury. "You hit your head pretty hard."

"I'm fine," Sam answered.

"You sure?" Dean persisted. He put out a hand seeing his brother sway slightly. His arms had deep claw marks from elbow to wrist and his shirt was bloodied where the bear had gotten past Sam's guard and taken a swipe across his stomach.

"Let's just get this done," Sam said, rubbing at the bump on his head. He walked to the bag he'd brought and got a large canister of salt. He held it in one hand and swung it in a wide arc, throwing salt across the room. He added extra to the bear and to the large pile he'd created first.

A touch of lighter fluid and the dusty fur burned like an Oklahoma grass fire.

Smedley stood with jaw open, looking at the spreading fire, Dean, his shotgun and the bear completely forgotten. "Y-you can't do that."

"Already done." Dean grabbed the stunned man by the sleeve and dragged him out the door into the corridor. Sam quickly followed shutting the door on the fire.

"Take us back to the garden," Dean ordered, "And hurry. Huntington is going to be back soon and he's going to be pissed."

* * *

_Thanks for sticking with it… Just a little bit to go… More tomorrow…(I hope -- Crosses fingers the site stays up -- )_


	6. Chapter 6

**Tastes Like Trophies**

_Thanks as always for the kind reviews. Generous souls, every one of you…Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this little yarn. We're close to the finish now…_

Chapter Six

* * *

Smedley led the way through the massive hotel toward the walled garden, half-stumbling, half-walking in a daze.

"Dean, do we have a plan?" Sam asked.

His brother shook his head. "Since when do we need a plan? We go in. We shoot or burn anything that needs to be shot or burnt. Other than that, we wing it."

"Dean," Sam said irritably, refusing to let him shrug it off. "I like plans because it tends to keep your injuries to a manageable level."

"Speak for yourself. You're the one who looks like he's been used for a scratching post," Dean cocked his head to one side, looking meaningfully at the gouges on Sam's arms.

"Yeah, I've got a few nicks, but you," Sam insisted, "You're like the Titanic of ghost hunting."

Dean gave him a wide grin. "Just call me the unsinkable Dean Winchester."

"I'll remind you of that in a few hours," Sam frowned, noting his brother's increasingly pronounced limp.

"In a few hours, I plan to be tucked into the cheapest, crappiest bed in the cheapest, crappiest hotel I can find. How's that for a plan?"

Sam nodded, but didn't say anything. Right now that sounded awfully good, but since when was anything ever that easy?

"Don't look so depressed," Dean shrugged. "At least we don't have to dig the guy up. I know how much you love doing that."

"About as much as you love those flying monkeys," Sam raised an eyebrow. "I always wondered why you avoided the Curious George books when we were little."

Dean pursed his lips. "I knew I never should have told you about that."

"That's what happens when you don't plan," Sam observed wryly. "Brothers get damning information that can and will be used against you."

"You bring up the monkeys again," his brother muttered, "and your next girlfriend gets a picture of you kissing that cow."

"I explained that!"

"Uh huh."

They arrived at the doors to the garden and halted, looking out. Smedley hit a switch and floodlights bathed the garden in a harsh florescent glow.

"The mausoleum is in the far corner," he pointed.

"Anything else he was buried with we need to know about?" Dean asked. "Cougar paw? Lemur teeth? Hippo… whatever hippos have?"

"Just his favorite shotgun."

Sam let a breath out slowly. "Should have guessed."

Dean physically turned Smedley around and pushed him toward the front of the house. "Fire department. Go call or the whole hotel will go up."

The manager nodded distantly, still in shock and walked back toward the lobby.

"Ok, let's make this quick," Dean opened the door and stepped out.

The shrubs were just shrubs now that the collection was burning, but Sam and Dean still gave them a wide berth as they hurried toward the farthest corner.

Sam thought he saw movement to his left though it was difficult to tell with all the tall, leafy statues blocking them in every direction. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck with the distinct sensation of being the hunted rather than the hunter.

"I saw it too," Dean whispered. "Let me worry about it. Your only job is to get into that mausoleum."

The walled garden was not overly large and they quickly approached the stone tomb. It looked like a tiny stone house set in the corner of the yard with short steps leading up to a small covered landing. The entrance was an oversized wooden door behind a heavy, intricately decorated wrought iron door.

Sam walked up the short steps while Dean turned his back to him and positioned himself as a guard. Deciding this was no time for finesse, Sam set his shotgun aside and pulled out the handgun he'd tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He shot open the lock on the wrought iron door and jerked it open. He leaned closer to examine the wooden door, which was obviously thick, heavy, and meant to keep out people just like him.

"Hey, Dean?" he said. "I'm gonna need your help to break this open."

Dean turned to come up the steps. Simultaneously, Sam heard a roar. He watched helplessly as the massive topiary lion sprang out from among the surrounding shrubs and pounced, knocking Dean off his feet. His brother landed flat on his back and the lion stood, both front paws firmly on Dean's chest.

Sam snatched up his shotgun and started down, firing into the huge lion before his foot had even hit the second step. Dean had managed to hold on to his own shotgun and fired point blank into the lion's face, leaves falling in a rain as Dean scrambled out from under the paws and stood several feet back.

"Sam, move your ass before it eats me!"

"Just stay away from it, Dean!" Sam ordered. "I only need a minute!" He gave his brother a stern look. "You hear me? Just stay away from it!"

Dean screamed and fell to his knees, though Sam couldn't see anything wrong. He ran down the last of the mausoleum's short steps. The lion was quickly repairing itself and Sam fired again into the lion's face to give them more time.

Dean fell forward on all fours. "Stop… Sam, stop," he said, breathing hard, raising a hand to keep him back. "Hunti… He's got a knife."

Sam was close enough he could see a shallow slicing wound across Dean's lower back, blood spilling over Dean's side onto the ground, but also a deeper matching wound across the back of both legs. The bastard had cut his legs out from under him, just like he'd tried to hobble an animal.

Sam fought not to swear. The man must have been buried with his hunting knife as well as his shotgun. Sam turned in a circle trying to locate their attacker, but he couldn't see anything. Worse, Sam realized, his shotgun was empty and the extra ammo was sitting on the landing to the mausoleum.

Sam moved again to go to his brother, but stopped as Dean was abruptly forced back to sit on his knees. Huntington appeared behind him, kneeling, one arm tight around Dean's throat. Huntington raised his other hand high, a vicious looking hunting knife in hand and brought it down fiercely, the knife plunging into Dean's thigh, then through it into his calf. He ripped the knife out, a sucking, tearing noise accompanying it as the flesh released the blade.

Huntington raised the knife for another attack, but before he could, Dean snapped his head back, connecting with Huntington's nose. Dean simultaneously twisted out of the man's grip as he released him and fell back.

Dean took in a shuddering breath and pushed himself to his feet, turning to face Huntington who was now standing behind him, bloody knife in hand.

"You wanted to see my collection, did you? Had me _lead_ you to it so you could destroy it," he hissed. "I'm going to gut you like a wild boar, my boy."

"Sam?" Dean barely turned in his direction, his breathing ragged. "Don't you… have something… to do? I can keep him busy… for a minute…"

"Don't go far, lad," Huntington pointed the bloody knife at him. "You're next."

Without warning, the lion pounced, knocking Huntington to the ground, its repaired jaws already ripping into the man's unprotected belly. Huntington stabbed at the lion furiously, but to no avail.

Dean spun and pointed. Sam needed no other hint and ran toward the mausoleum. He barreled into the wooden door putting every ounce of force into it he could, breaking it open. Only one stone bier stood in the center. Dean entered a few seconds behind him and together they pushed the heavy lid to the floor, the stone breaking into several heavy pieces.

Dean stumbled back and sank to the ground near the door. Sam wasted no time with the salt and lighter fluid. In only seconds the desiccated remains and the lion's claws, worn like a necklace around the corpse's neck, burst into flame as Sam touched his lighter to it.

Sam walked to the door and Dean twisted to look out just in time to see a gutted Huntington and the leafy lion devouring him vanish in a burst of flame. Only a few fiery embers remained to float to the ground and die out.

Sam mercilessly hauled Dean to his feet and pulled one of his arms across his shoulders. Barely pausing to gather Dean's shotgun and throw it into the bag of supplies, Sam half-ran, half-dragged him through the garden into the house, which already had a vague haze of smoke hovering in the air.

He left Dean leaning against a wall while he sprinted to their room and got their things. They had precious little and couldn't afford to leave anything behind.

One bag of clothes. Check. One bag of weapons. Check. One injured brother. Check. Business as usual. Time to head for the hills before the cavalry arrived and started asking questions.

* * *

_Righto… Here's hoping that kept you vaguely entertained for a while… Just a little epilogue tomorrow to tie it all up…_


	7. Chapter 7

**Tastes Like Trophies**

_Here it is… the promised epilogue… Thanks to you all for taking the time to give this a read._

Chapter Seven

* * *

Sam drove out the large front gates just seconds before the fire department and an accompanying police cruiser arrived.

Driving in the opposite direction from where the emergency vehicles had come, Sam didn't spare the house another look. He saw Dean, however, gazing out the passenger side window toward the hotel. There wasn't really anything to see due to the high walls surrounding the grounds. Nevertheless, the night was ablaze with light and they both knew the wing where the collection had been kept was fully engulfed in fire.

"So that went well," Dean said tiredly.

"I feel much more relaxed," Sam responded.

Dean grunted, trying to change position in his seat. Sam knew there was no way for him to get comfortable. Between the knife wounds and the tiger chewing on it, Dean's leg was a disaster. The other cuts were only aggravating the situation. In truth, the longer Dean went without complaining about the mess he was making of the car, the more Sam was starting to worry.

"I didn't even get to enjoy the mint on my pillow," Dean lamented.

"I'm sorry, man," Sam said earnestly. "I know you wanted a break."

"Yeah, well, we burnt half the place down. That'll teach 'em not to mess up my vacation," his brother observed dryly.

"How's your leg?"

"I…" Dean's mouth twisted in pain, "it'll hold until you can look at it."

"Ok." Sam had come back from getting their things to see that Dean had taken off his belt and wrapped it around his leg to put pressure on the stab wound. It was stopgap at best though. If Dean thought Sam was going to patch him up in some dingy motel room and just hope he didn't die of infection, then he could think again. Sam was just waiting for his brother to pass out so he could take him to an emergency room without getting any grief.

Sam mentally went through the towns they had passed on the way in. They needed the closest hospital that was still far enough away there wouldn't be any questions. The police here knew who had found the dead valet. They wouldn't think a stabbing was a coincidence, not to mention the fire or the vandalized mausoleum.

The hotel fell away behind them and Dean finally turned his eyes to look out the front of the car. His gaze was hooded though and Sam could see something was troubling him.

"What is it?" Sam asked. Dean looked away and Sam waited and waited until finally he thought Dean just wasn't going to answer.

"Talk to me, man," Sam coaxed nervously. "What's wrong? Is it your leg?" He hadn't had a chance to really get a good look at Dean's injuries.

"No." Dean cleared his throat, still refusing to look at him. "You know… What the manager guy said…"

"He said a lot of things," Sam knit his brow in confusion.

Dean continued as if he hadn't heard. "If I ever… I mean, hunting… we're good at it… but… If I… If you see me…"

Sam suddenly remembered the look on Dean's face when the manager had called him a murderer, the look that said his brother _almost_ believed it. He'd seen Dean's reaction to the Game Room and to Huntington.

"It's ok, Dean. I know you're not like that guy."

Dean's expression was still troubled and Sam could see the real worry underneath. "Yeah, but if… one day…" He shot Sam a sidelong glance.

"If I catch you saving ears or teeth or going all 'Heart of Darkness', I'll be sure to smack you," Sam said, trying for lightness.

"Heart of Darkness?" Dean frowned.

"'Apocalypse Now'," Sam replied. "You should read a book sometime."

"Cool movie," Dean smiled, though it faded quickly. "You'll do something if I go all psycho Marlon Brando?"

"Of course," Sam answered simply, and amazingly Dean relaxed as if that made it all better or somehow all right. Sam felt the burden of his brother's absolute trust settle more firmly around his shoulders. But as burdens went… it was an easy fit.

"You'll know I've lost it if I get one of those funny hats that Huntington guy was wearing," Dean said more evenly. He laid his head back against the seat and his eyes began to droop closed.

"A pith helmet."

Dean snorted, his eyes shutting. "You know, that's so easy, I'm not even going to bother with a joke."

They drove in silence for several minutes until Sam thought Dean had either fallen asleep or passed out. Sam nearly jumped when Dean coughed quietly.

"So we never did get dinner."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "Dean, we've got to get you patched up first."

"Yeah, yeah," his brother waved it away, like he always did.

"You can't seriously be hungry."

"I could eat," Dean answered, though his words were heavy with sleep.

Sam rolled his eyes. Like anyone would let Dean in a restaurant in the state he was in. They would run screaming and call the police.

"What do you want?" Sam asked, humoring him. "Maybe we can find a drive through."

Dean sighed. "I was thinking chicken…" he shifted painfully in his seat, but then smiled drowsily, "Tastes like topiary."

* * *

_Voila… Just in case you didn't notice the theme of the story titles so far, there is one more left to go… So stay tuned…_


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